


More Than the Truth

by StoneSabre



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Gen, Past Torture, Psychological Drama, Stangst, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 10:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15410952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoneSabre/pseuds/StoneSabre
Summary: Stan is a man of many faces. When he has to choose one to do right by his family, he risks destroying himself altogether.





	More Than the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Let me just start by saying thank you to all of you reading this. Though this is the first thing I've published in almost two years, my desire to write Gravity Falls fanfiction never really left, even after all this time. I've been procrasting, coming up with ideas and then scrapping them, and constanly losing focus, but I never once thought about leaving it all behind. I think that's a testament to how much love and inspiration goes around in this fandom. You guys really are the best.
> 
> So I guess this is kinda me showing my gratitude. Strap in and enjoy the most unapologetically angstiest Stangst I could whip up.
> 
> Warnings: Domestic Violence, Blood, Mild Torture, Intense Self-Hatred

He was in trouble again, and it was his fault like always.

The regret and self-hatred might have been painful, if the bat he received to his ribcage hadn’t been ten times more so. He was restrained by two men, holding him by each of his arms. He could do nothing but scream, nearly tearing his throat doing so. Gasping for air felt like sucking needles into his lungs.

The scarcely lit chamber obscured the view of the man facing away from him, leaning over the trunk of a black ‘64 El Camino. Anyone seeing him for the first time could guess he was a mob boss. He had the look of an underworld aristocrat, wearing only an unbuttoned red shirt and a speedo, and holding an empty whiskey bottle.

The man holding the bat stood directly over him, sneering at him through his tar-stained beard, but he looked no less satisfied as he cupped the bat in his hand like he was ready to hit a homerun.

“If you were a skinnier guy, this’d be over quicker,” He taunted sadistically.

The bat crashed into him again. Another blood-curdling scream filled the rusted garage. He squirmed to break free from the hands burrowing into his arms like lion claws.

The bat struck him again. And again. The vicious grip on each of his arms felt like hooks dragging across his skin. He couldn’t escape. The pain kept coming in a bludgeoning barrage. They were gonna beat him to death. Fuck, he was gonna die!

“Enough!” The man leaning on the car suddenly intervened, stepping forward and blocking the bat mid-swing. The butcher hesitated to surrender it, displeasure evident in his expression for having his fun interrupted, but he held his tongue.

“I don’t want him dead. Not yet.” He released the bat. After the boss whispered something in his ear, the butcher left the garage, but not before flashing a foreboding grin at their victim. The chamber grew quiet upon his departure. Stan breathed in the fumes of dried oil, gritting his teeth and trying not to pass out from the pain. The only sound accompanying him was the feint rhythm of someone flipping through a stack of dollars in the corner of the garage.

“How much?” The boss, a man simply referred to as Father, called to the person in the corner.

“Got about eleven hundred dollars in this bag,” the voice that responded was that of a crude, southern accented woman. “I’m not sure who’s the dumber motherfucker here. This guy for bein’ so damn ambitious, or you for lettin’ it slip under your nose for this long.”

The woman said this in jest, but Father‘s silence betrayed his displeasure. He took a swaggered step forward and stopped just in front of his captive. He towered over the beaten specimen in all his tyrannical splendor, the slits of evening sunlight breaking into the garage and shining on his balding scalp, extravagant tattoos snaking up his arms, legs, chest, and other concealed parts. Yet when he kneeled down to see his victim up close, his essence somehow changed from imposing to downright terrifying.

“You lied to me. You know that right?”

For an ordeal this painful, the most terrifying part of it for Stan was the moment the man sneering down at him finally addressed him. He was chilled by a sense of fear in that moment... or maybe it was shame. Regardless, he dared not look up to meet Father’s eyes, instead keeping his gaze near the empty glass bottle in his hand.

“Gonna tell me why you did it, Andy? That really your name or did’y lie about that too?”

‘Andy.’ It was characteristic of a mob boss to make a scene out of some lackey’s insubordination. The fact that Stan still managed to keep any secrets at this juncture was so maliciously ironic, it was almost funny.

He was called “8-ball” by most of his partners in crime. Father was the only man who called him Andy. An outsider might hear it and think it was the boss’s pet name for him. Stan always got the sense his use of the name was supposed to be in confidence - a symbol of their bond. Of course, Stan saw to it that trust became a pile of ash.

His first instinct was to do what he was good at - conjure up some tall tale to get him out of this mess. But he was scared to say anything. They would beat him again if they smelled any whiff of another lie. Instead he was overcome with an urge to beg forgiveness.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

It was the first time Stan spoke in that garage, and his words were met with a whiskey bottle shattering against his face. His body impacted the harsh, cold floor of the garage as he screamed, his vision suddenly racked and bleary. He clenched his eyes shut and grit his teeth, trying to endure the shock of his suddenly ringing ears and throbbing migraine. Every inch of him, inside and out, was crying in pain. Each attempt to pick himself back up sent agony cascading through his limbs.

“Nobody likes being  _lied to_  Andy!" Father kneeled down and seethed, practically spitting on him. "It  ** _hurts_**  when the people I care about... _**LIE TO ME!**_ ” 

He continued his futile attempt to pick himself back up, pushing a groan through his racked lungs, but it turned into a pained grunt as Father clawed at his mullet and pulled him up by the roots of his hair. He forced Stan to meet his glare. Father breathed through his nose in an attempt to recompose himself, but to the man trapped in his clutches, he resembled a beast snarling at its prey.

Men like Stan came to fear the eyes of retribution. It had arrived in a shade of pale, demented blue, like diamonds etched into blood-stained marble.

“I understand you’re in a bit of pain. It’ll be over soon.”

The quiet fury of his voice was chilling, in contrast with his aggressive hold on him. Yet Stan didn’t miss the tone of regret dripping from it. He seemed hesitant to say it.

His hand moved to Stan’s chin, scraping the blood dripping from his brow down past the corner of his lips. Father rubbed his thumb against his soul patch with a darkly intimate gentleness. For a moment he turned away from Stan, giving a far off glance to El Camino.

“I’m sorry.”

The words slipped past Stan’s lips before he could stop them. He was not a man of integrity. It was not beneath him to beg for his life. But he wasn’t heartless. This man was just another in a long list of people he’d let down. With every moment that passed, it slowly dawned on him that he would be the last person on that list.

“You’re sorry...”

The words penetrated his veil of reservation for a brief moment. His lips curled in the way he’s only seen accompanying a certain kind of anger. The taking-out-the-trash kind of anger that Stan was so familiar with.

“Yeah, well... me too,” was his surprisingly sincere response.

Father stood and took a step back. “I’m glad we both understand the reason why I have to send you to an early grave. Unfortunately, I can’t bring myself to see through your sentence myself. It’s too painful for me. So these boys will have to do it in my stead.” He pointed to the two men standing by him. Stan felt him arms being jostled and locked in place once again.

“There’s a comfortable place in the trunk he can sleep tonight. Tomorrow, you’ll take him on a one way trip to the desert and drop him off there. Heat stroke, starvation, snake bites - all good ways to die.”

A breath of intense dread cracked through his teeth. His head sank in his despair, as he descended into a whimpering, trembling pile of cowardice. Shit, he really was gonna die... fuck!

Just the sound of the thought in his head was downright pathetic. He was almost disgusted by the utterly broken, sniveling mess he’d been reduced to.

_I’m not impressed._

He’d lost all of his options. His attempt to beg forgiveness had failed. There were too many men around to make any attempt to escape. If he chose to fight his way out, they would surely kill him on the spot.

Yet that seemed preferable to perishing alone, beaten and hollowed off the side of a desert highway.

_Get up!_

There was a certain feeling men like him were familiar with. It manifested when a man was left at the end of his rope - a gambler’s adrenaline.

_Fight back! You’re no damn coward!_

He wasn’t sure if the voice in his head was his own or... someone else’s, but it was a conscience that always came through in the most dire moments and beat him into shape.

He was taken back to the ring. His sights were instantly locked on the person in the corner across from him. He couldn’t quite make out his opponent in the dark chamber, but he was menacing nonetheless. He could have mistaken him for some blood-thirsty animal. But the most terrifying creature was not the one before him. It was the one behind him, just outside of his own corner. It was a ghost hanging back in the shadows, warning him that if he didn’t learn to fight back, the world would eat him alive.

The ghost was always biding in a nebulous corner of his mind, ready to throw him back in the match when the world knocked him down. Hearing the cacophony declaring his defeat, he would breathe in the dust around the dark ring, and it would be like breathing in the heat of the sun. He would keep up the fight, his blood boiling with new energy.

The two lackeys holding him down didn’t expect the sudden thrashing about. He broke free almost effortlessly and swung his arm back, crashing his elbow below the belt of one of the aggressors. Without missing a beat, he hooked his arm around and landed his fist straight across the other man’s jaw with a nasty upper cut. Father turned back just in time to see both men go down.

He turned his sights back to Father, new fire burning in his eyes. Staring upon his captive’s newfound strength, It was the first time the mob boss showed any signs of genuine shock.

“You want to kill me after everything we’ve been through! You’re gonna have to do it right here and now, you psychotic fuck!” Stan’s defiant roar thundered through the garage.

Fighting back would surely get him killed, but it was better to go out with a bang than with a whimper. He charged at him with a ferocious wail, pulling his arm back and going for the knockout...

* * *

 

His fist impacted with a gruesome crunch. The crash that followed was even more violent. His victim took down the wooden table behind him on his way down.

“Grunkle Stan!”

The scream was followed by a deafening, eerie silence. He came to realize he was... home. Stained carpet, worn couch and all. There was no outside danger, despite his bucked stance and the rawness of his nerves.

He was ready to unwind, vaguely realizing the present threat had passed, but he recognized the voice that cried out. It was a girl’s voice. Something troubled him about the sound of it.

The next thing he heard was footsteps, moving hastily and erratically. A boy in a hat ran past him towards the man that had fallen, nearly tripping over himself on his way.

His eyes went to the man on the floor next to a broken table, its shattered edges tainted red. The man’s face was turned over, but he noticed the glasses fallen by his side. The cracked spectacles on the floor was a hauntingly familiar image. He could never forget who this man was. He was Stanford Pines. The man trapped between dimensions. The author of the journals. His own twin brother.

“Great Uncle Ford!” The boy cried as he made it to Ford’s side. “Oh no...” he started to panic when his eyes did not open, “No no no no no no!”

The boy’s apparent distress was alarming, but it helped him remember who he was. The boy was his nephew, Dipper. He was back home, in the Mystery Shack, with his family. But it didn’t make sense. Where had he gone? Why couldn’t he remember what led to this moment? And... fuck, his hand hurt! Why did it feel like he just punched a brick wall?

Why was Ford on... the...

Stan looked at his hand, then back to the man on the ground, and put the pieces together. He did this.

“Why would you do that!” Dipper stood up and screamed at him, on the verge of tears. “Why would you hurt him like that!”

Stan recoiled back, looking around at the havoc he apparently caused. The girl - his niece, Mabel - could not move. She was hiding her face in the arms of another - a large, youthful man in a dark green shirt. It was Soos. His expression was bewildered and frankly horrified, but it paled in comparison to the girl holding onto him. She was frozen completely. The poor girl was in shock.

“I... I don’t...”

There’s was an innate horror within the emotion of anger. The redness of the feeling was blinding. In the heat of the moment he couldn’t see the pain he brought to the people closest to him.

But when Ford pushed himself over, a husky groan erupting from his throat and eyes opening halfway, Stan could only see the blood upon his face. It was like seeing his own red madness, latching onto his victim like a parasite.

_No... no, not again... NOT AGAIN!_

He held his own hands before him, knuckles tipped with his brother’s blood, and trembled.

“I’m sor...”

It felt monumental to say, beneath the weight of every wrong he’d done to him. He lost his breath before he could finish two words.

He walked back, reaching out until his hand touched the doorframe leading out of the room. As he reached the stairs, every tortured breath came faster and faster until he was hyperventilating. He moved his legs faster with each step, reaching the top before anyone could even think to chase after him. He didn’t think he could move so fast in his age, but as he hit a fever pitch of complete emotional disfunction, the walls of the hallway were flying past him in a blur.

He broke through the door of his room and his adrenaline had drained as fast as it manifested. He started to fall over, but he caught himself on the wall to his right. Damn he was tired.

He recovered a bit to close the door behind him. He was alone again. He glanced around his room, the only sound accompanying him were his own burning, tired breaths.

Some people had a way of making their rooms reflect who they are as a person. His room was just as dark, messy, and confused as he was. Quality, business tycoon-esque portraits and tacky 70s memorabilia adorned the walls and shelves.

He came to rest on the creaky bed. The closed door was a vague shadow on the wall across from him. His eyes laid upon his hands again, large and calloused as they were empty and wanting. The trembling still persisted, growing more violent. They were almost uncontrollable now. He laid them against his knees to keep them still. He breathed in... and exhaled.

_“Grunkle Stan!”_

 His breath hitched in his throat. The cries of his niece still rang and rolled inside his skull, screaming his name with more fear and anguish than he’d ever heard in her voice. The images of the disturbing events just moments prior became a whirlwind in his head.

" _Why would you do that!?”_

His nephew was boiling with rage. It was obvious in just how fiercely he directed it at him. Meek, nerdy little Dipper wouldn’t have even raised his voice at tough, old, brass-fisted Stan if his anger wasn’t something fierce, but the boy appeared on the verge of drawing blood. He could only imagine seeing himself from the boy’s prospective, how monstrous he must have looked striking his own brother, and how much courage it must have taken to face him afterwards.

Mabel... she couldn’t even look at him. She hid her face away in Soos’s arms, and said nothing. The poor girl had to be terrified, by what he did, by Dipper’s boiling anger, and by Ford lying on the floor, bleeding from the forehead. From where she stood, it seemed her normally fun-loving, compassionate, supportive family were suddenly at each other’s throats. It was all too devastating for her innocent heart.

The blood on his hand was only a feint smudge in the dark room. Yet it seared his skin like magma. It burned his knuckles and cascaded through the spaces between his fingers. It wouldn’t let him forget whose fault this was.

He rubbed his brow, wishing for his racing nerves to stop. He was too old for this much stress. But the visceral images of his nephew’s anger, his niece’s fear, and his brother’s blood would not leave his mind. It was like some demented circus, playing the latest train wreck on repeat.

He pushed his hands to his eyes. His breath began to escape from him again. The silence in the room was broken by his own suppressed sob. The regret he was feeling, it was the same as the one he felt the night he slept in his own car, when he was no longer welcome home in Glass Shard Beach. It was the same as the day a mob boss held him hostage in a Texas garage. It was the same as the night after his brother disappeared behind the portal in the basement. At first the feeling crept, but it had a way of constricting around him like a desert snake. He could have thought he was choking, the way air was moving through him, yet he couldn’t actually breathe.

A tortured wail suddenly erupted from his throat. He tried to hold it back, but screaming was all he could do to keep from suffocating. Someone could have heard him from anywhere in the shack, had he not buried his face in his hands. He was deathly terrified of this particular pain. His heart was old and tired, plagued by the torment of self-hatred. In moments like these, it seemed like the beating muscle in his chest could burst under the weight of his sins. It frightened him how merciful the idea was.

The dam had broken and tears were trickling through his hands. He spent that night like he did those other loathsome nights. Alone, knowing he had shown the people he supposedly cared about who he really was. He spent... all his life lying to himself that he wasn’t that person. He couldn’t be an abuser.

Why couldn’t he stop hurting the people he cared about? Why did he fuck everything up? Was it so hard for a conman to just be good to his family?

No... he could never be good enough for them. His entire life was just an ongoing con. Ford was wise. He saw through him because he knew the truth from the beginning.

The life of a con artist could only come from a rotted heart. There were so many lies, years upon years of them, each one built on the last. But a house of cards was easy to topple. Time was the only thing anyone needed to grow wise to his antics, and with each passing day, his family further unraveled themselves from his web of lies. They were starting to see what was behind the curtain. Beneath the jovial facade he’d built over the years, he was a dangerous, violent man. He was a criminal.

_You were right._

It was the last thought that would follow him into his sleep.

_You were right about me, Father._


End file.
